by Bethany-Kris
And that pissed him off.
“If you’re going to keep that bouncing shit up,” Ruslan said, still flicking through channels on the television, “then I am going to make you leave.”
Kaz stilled again. “You’d think after having your face beat in, you’d be a little quieter.”
Ruslan laughed, a wince following right behind. “Yeah, you’d think.”
But that wasn’t Ruslan’s style.
Out of the corner of his eye, something on the television’s guide caught Kaz’s attention. “Wait, go back.”
“I am not watching fashion shit, Kazimir. If you suddenly took possession of a vagina between your legs, feel free to go home and watch it on your own flatscreen.”
“Shut the fuck up. No, there was one—Gallucci Fashions, it said. Go back.”
Grumbling under his breath, Ruslan did what he was told. Sure enough, it was a live shot of Andrea Gallucci’s latest collection she had released. Beside him, his brother sighed and muttered on, but Kaz was too busy scanning the faces in the crowd behind the models.
Front row and center, he found her.
Violet.
The camera quickly left her position as it continued following the model’s walk, but what he had seen was enough for him to consider a few things.
Her friends had been sitting on one side of her. Her brother on the other. An empty chair was between them, probably reserved for Alberto himself.
Except the man wasn’t there.
Fury filled Kaz’s throat with a sickening taste all over again, and he clenched his fists tight enough that his fingernails bit into his palms.
Had the Italian boss decided to forgo his wife’s show because he had better business to attend to, say like making sure his orders were followed through?
Kaz wasn’t sure, but he didn’t like the look of it.
“Are you done watching this?” Ruslan asked.
“Yeah, whatever.”
Ruslan changed the channel, but not in quick enough time for Kaz to miss the camera’s next shot landing directly on Violet and her friends again. It lingered a bit longer the second time—long enough for him to see her perfectly coiffed like she always seemed to be whenever she was out in public.
That wasn’t what irritated him the most, however.
It was seeing her with the other two—mostly the one who lied and caused his brother to be beaten like an animal. She had to have known her friend was saying falsehoods about what had happened that night, and yet, she didn’t correct the lies.
And those who didn’t correct other’s lies were just as bad as those who spoke them.
No, she was sitting right there with the other girl, even as she wore that fucking red dress that he’d chosen at the boutique. It was almost like she was taunting him, even if she couldn’t have possibly known that he was going to see her wearing it.
He wanted to know why.
If Kaz wasn’t allowed to go after the Italian who attacked Ruslan because of his father's orders, Vasily had said nothing about Violet.
... for once.
Kaz stood from the couch, still simmering in his fury and settled on his decision. Manhattan might be a warrant for his death, but he was willing to risk it after tonight.
“You’ll be all right, yes?” Kaz asked his brother.
Ruslan glanced up, a knowing glint burning behind his eyes. “Stay in Brighton, Kaz.”
“I’m not planning on going anywhere. You heard Vasily—I was told no … and called a child.”
“That doesn’t mean you’ll listen.”
“I’m going home, brat.”
Ruslan let out a heavy breath, turning back to the television. “Sure you are.”
Violet snatched a flute glass filled nearly to the rim with champagne and tossed the bubbly drink back in one long pull. She knew it didn’t look well on her to be drinking like that with so many people around to watch, but her nerves were frayed enough to make her reach for a second glass as soon as she finished the first.
Just holding the second one was enough.
It was there if she needed it.
Out of the whole event of her mother’s fashion shows, the one thing Violet usually enjoyed the most were the after parties. While she could get an up close view of high profile people and celebrities sitting along the runway at the actual event, during the parties afterwards, she was rubbing elbows with those same people.
Most of the time, it was surreal.
Tonight, she was not in the mood.
It didn’t help that her friends had all but deserted her after arriving to the rented private upper-Manhattan loft space that her mother preferred to use for her after parties. Both Nicole and Amelia were gone off into the crowd of guests somewhere, putting their faces in front of the right people and smiling just the way they had been taught.
Violet knew the game. She used to play it, too.
Not tonight.
Glancing around the loft, she took in the black with chrome detailed decorations that matched the theme of her mother’s show. Chandeliers full of glittering crystals hung low from the vaulted ceiling. Most of the people had changed attire from what they had been wearing at the show, to sexier nightwear that they could move and dance in. Music from a DJ filled the space.
Violet’s mind was somewhere else entirely.
Her father had yet to come back. It wasn’t like Alberto to leave his wife hanging on a night that was as important as this one. Andrea was pissed off to the high heavens, but she was hiding it well enough, with her usual smile plastered on and a hand held out, ready to accept praise for her latest designs.
Violet was still worried. It put her on edge, which meant she just wasn’t in the mood for the party or the people. She would much rather be back at her condo where she could at least feel safe.
Maybe that’s what it was.
Maybe she just didn’t feel safe out in the open like this when something was clearly wrong.
Turning her back to the crowd, Violet stared out one of the loft’s many floor-to-ceiling windows as she tipped the flute glass up for another drink. The alcohol settled in her blood with a heavy quality, numbing her senses enough to take that edge off for the moment.
She wasn’t stupid enough to think it would last for long.
“There you are.”
Violet turned on her heel at the sound of her mother’s voice. Andrea’s smile was wide, but her eyes spoke of irritation as they narrowed in on Violet.
“What are you doing over here in the corner by yourself?” Andrea asked low, careful not to talk loud enough for others to hear. “I found your friends, but you weren’t with them. Do you know the people who are in here tonight, Violet? You should be out there talking to them.”
“I can do that on another night, Ma,” Violet said. “You’ll have another two shows this year alone.”
Andrea’s lips thinned. “What is the problem?”
“Nothing. I’m just tired.”
“Well, get untired,” her mother snapped.
Violet bit back her retort, knowing it wouldn’t do anything except piss her mother off further. Andrea’s bad mood was only caused because of her husband’s absence. Otherwise, she would leave her daughter alone.
“Aren’t there people who want to talk to you?” Violet asked.
“Yes, but at the moment, I’m busy chasing after my daughter.”
“It’s not like you want to be doing that, so why are you even bothering?”
Andrea straightened, her hand clenching tight around the flute glass she held. Violet stood still and strong in the face of her mother’s barely-hidden anger. She felt a little proud of herself for having stood up to Andrea for once, because she usually wouldn’t, and instead, would let her mother criticize her as much as she wanted.
Maybe Violet was just growing up from that sort of nonsense with her mother. As a child, and a young teen, she had constantly tried to seek her mother’s approval in any way she could. While she loved attention fr
om her father, she had always wanted some sort of affection from her mother as well.
Andrea’s affection only came when she approved of something, and not in between.
She was the very definition of conditional love.
Violet just didn’t care anymore.
“What did you just say to me?” Andrea asked.
If she held that glass any tighter, it very well might shatter.
Violet nodded at the glass. “Careful. We all know how quickly spilled blood can end a good party.”
Andrea’s hand loosened a bit. “Fine. If you want to leave like your father did, then go. God knows you’re doing nothing for me standing here in the goddamn corner.”
She smirked, knowing her mother’s words were only meant to hurt. For the majority of the night, her mother had ignored her, more so after hearing her daughter be complimented on the dress she’d chosen to wear. She hadn’t missed the looks Andrea had shot in her direction when she thought Violet didn’t notice, either.
The red dress Kaz picked out.
Unable to stop herself, though she knew she shouldn’t, Violet brushed her hand across the skirt of the red dress and said, “Even standing in a dress like this?”
Andrea’s jaw ticked. “Especially in a dress like that. You’re dressed like a whore.”
“You never did like it when someone looked better than you, Ma.”
Her mother didn’t respond to that. Instead, she clenched her teeth, turned on her heel, and stormed back into the flood of guests.
Violet was already heading toward the door.
Tapping his thumb against the steering wheel, Kaz stared out the windshield, watching and waiting for the moment that Violet Gallucci appeared. He knew she wasn’t home yet—he’d been out on the street long enough to know that much. But he was a patient man …
In his other hand, he turned a cigarette over between his fingers, thinking of how the nicotine within would take the edge off and give him peace of mind. For now, he was jittery with anticipation. There was a certain thrill to be where he was, especially knowing that he courted the wrath of more than one man if anyone knew where he was, or worse, what he had planned.
There was no guarantee what this night would bring—it wouldn’t be the first time he had made a mistake—but by the end of it, and of this he was sure, his point would be made, whether the girl he was waiting on liked it or not.
Glancing over at the illuminated dash, Kaz checked the time once more, then as he contemplated withdrawing his phone, just to keep himself busy, blinding headlights caught his attention. The town car they came from slowed down in front of Violet’s building.
The rear, passenger door swung open, and after a moment, the very person he’d been waiting on for more than an hour stepped out, slamming the door shut behind her. Before she could get far, however, the passenger’s window rolled down and a masculine voice called out to her. She turned, a flash of annoyance in her eyes as she went back, bending over to see inside the car and listen to what was being said.
The position made the material of the dress pull tighter across her backside, drawing his attention there and down the length of her legs.
Kaz might have hated the girl at the moment, but he could still appreciate the sight she made.
After a rather brief conversation, one that had Violet nodding, she was finally allowed to walk inside, and only when she was through the doors did the car pull away.
Stepping out of his own vehicle, Kaz tucked his cigarette away, making his way to the entrance. There was no guarantee that the doorman would let him in. Though the man looked ancient, he probably remembered a face and knew that he didn’t live in the building, but that didn’t stop Kaz.
Deftly, he pulled a hundred-dollar bill free from his suit jacket, holding it between two fingers as he offered it to the man without question. “I’m here to see the Martins on fifteen,” he said by way of explanation.
Whether there was an actual Martin family, or the man just wanted the money, Kaz was let through.
There was no sight of Violet in the lobby, but there was no need. Knowing men like Alberto Gallucci, he wouldn’t just allow his daughter into any apartment. No, it would need to be at the top, and one with a fair level of privacy, in case he or any of his associates were to visit.
Arriving at the bank of elevators, he checked the numbers. There were four, with two having never left the lobby floor, and another only going up to the second floor. The last, however, had stopped on the 26th floor—which must have been the one Violet had taken.
Boarding one, he pressed the number, watching the doors close as he drummed his fingers against the railing. After a while, he curled his fingers around the cool metal, needing to get his shit together. He had too many tells—the bouncing of his knee, drumming his fingers—like no matter how carefully controlled he tried to force himself to be, his nerves always manifested themselves.
When the bell dinged—the doors opening once more—Kaz stepped out, glancing down the hallway. To his surprise, there was only one unit on the floor, the door at the end. As he stopped in front of it and knocked, he didn’t bother covering the peephole, but purposefully took a step back so that she would have a clear view as to who stood on the other side.
He waited. And waited. Then considered the logistics of kicking the fucking door in before it swung open, Violet standing on the other side of it, wide-eyed like she had never seen a man before.
The cameras hadn’t done her justice, not even a little. In person, he could see the warm glow of her skin, the way her dress hugged to her curves. She looked beautiful, stunning really, enough that it made him want to drink her in further, and that annoyed the fuck out of him.
His brother had nearly gotten his head caved in because of her shit, because she and her friends decided they wanted a little trouble and wandered over to their side to fulfill it.
His anger renewed, when she opened her mouth to speak, he snapped, “Don’t speak.”
Surprisingly, she heeded the command, her lips slamming shut. He didn’t give her a chance to contemplate her actions before he was grabbing her arm, dragging her back into her apartment, and slammed the door shut behind them. He swung her around to stand in front of him.
“Kaz, what the hell are you doing?” she asked after he’d let her go, looking down at her arm as though it hurt.
But he hadn’t gripped her hard, of that he was sure. “What did I say?”
“Wait, wha—”
“Violet!”
She jerked violently at the sound of her own name, her gaze lifting to his immediately as fear clouded them. Oh, was she getting it now? Was she understanding that he wasn’t under her father and wouldn’t treat her like she was fucking glass?
“Tell me, when you stood in that office with me, worried about that little suka, what did I say?”
She swallowed, the sound almost audible as her eyes flitted to the side and back again. “That she would be fine with your brother, but I—”
When he took a step toward her, she took one back, and they repeated this dance until her back was against the wall and he was merely inches away. He shouldn’t have been delighted in her fear, but the sight of it—the way she trembled slightly, her breath catching in her throat—called to the darker urges inside of him.
“Imagine my surprise when fucking Italians show up and beat my brother to shit because your friend told them that he drugged her.”
“Amelia woul—”
“Who is Franco?” He really wanted to know, and despite his promise to his brother that he wouldn’t be going after the Italians, he would at least have an ending place for his rage once he got the green light.
Understanding seemed to light up her eyes. “Amelia’s boyfriend, but he—”
“Is that what you do?” Kaz asked, interrupting her once more, dragging his gaze down her front like he couldn’t help himself. “You and your little friends. You go out, get fucking slaughtered on drinks, and then cause probl
ems? Is this some kind of game for you? Is that what you want, someone to fuck with?”
She was just standing there, staring up at him as though in a daze, but he was too pissed for that shit.
Slamming his open palm against the wall to get her attention, he said, “Answer me, you little suka!”
“Fuck you!” She exploded, shoving two hands against his chest and pushing him away.
Her strength was laughable compared to his, but he did take a step back, waiting to see what she would do next, because while her fear called to him, that fire in her eyes excited him more.
Violet clenched her fists at her side, staying pressed against the wall as she glared at Kaz. She was grateful he had taken a step back from her, because it let her take a second to think, but it didn’t offer much more.
She could still see him. The tightness of his jaw, the darkness in his features, and the anger radiating over his entire body.
He was so pissed.
At her.
And he still looked good.
She kind of hated him for that, too.
“Who do you think you are?” she asked him.
Kaz cocked one eyebrow. “I—”
“No, you get to listen now.” Violet’s anger forced her away from the wall where she felt a little more grounded, and right back at the man who thought he had some kind of right to storm into her apartment, demanding answers like she was the only one who might have them. Her finger snapped into his chest hard, making his gaze drop down to her hand. “Fuck you.”
He chuckled—dry and deep.
Violet ignored the way it rocked his chest and her hand. “I don’t care who you are. You don’t get to come in here like that, putting your goddamn hands on me and dragging me around like some doll.”
Again, he just smirked.
That time, he bared his teeth a little, but he was still watching her hand.
It irritated Violet like she couldn’t explain.
“Look at me!”
Kaz did, instantly. “What?”
Violet stilled. The one word had been practically spat from between clenched teeth—like she was nothing to him, and she wasn’t worth his words, looks, or attention.